Blogs

June 27, 2004

In 1998, I was on a train out of London, the skyline receeding in the background, the clickity-clack of the rails, a slight drizzle. I'd just talked to my ex-girlfriend on the phone in the station, her in a different time zone across the Atlantic, her telling me that it was too late.

The train picked up speed, London grew smaller, and I wiped the tears off my face and thought, "Even though this feeling sucks, it means that I can feel. And that means I'm alive."

Six years and several girlfriends and breakups later, here I am again, this time in my apartment in the Bay area, tears again--for the first time in a long time, allowing myself to feel sadness at the end of a relationship (walking away without feeling used to feel so simple)--but now my feelings on a blog.

Eight months. That was us. Dog years, in my book. She said to me, "For the first time I see the possibilities, what I'm capable of. You've shown me that." I said, "Being with you has made me a better man."

What makes a relationship work? We looked at the world through different filters. She wanted a home, a 30-year mortgage, a stable job. I wanted to dream, to write, to travel. To experience my dreams become real. Our dreams were not the same.

My friends, the ones who know me well, said, "You will take the growth you've had with her and it will be a part of you. You will carry that to the next one." I know that.

But still, I lay in bed and couldn't imagine being friends, getting together for coffee, then walking to our cars and going our own ways without wanting to wake up next to her, to hold her, run my fingers across her lips, watch her smile.

Can you just be friends with someone you loved without it tearing you up? Or is it better to let go and walk away, holding the memories close...

May 30, 2004

There was once a general who fought wars with bravery and courage. When he grew older, he was troubled over the constant changes in the world. So, he turned to Buddhism. He traveled across the land, studying from the masters until he became one. Then, people would come to him (now a monk) and often ask why things change. He would answer: Mountains and mountain paths never change. It is our minds that change.

A possible moral: The perfect person's mind is like a mirror, neither taking nor welcoming. It responds but doesn't store. So. when it's time to be a general, you should be a general. When it's time to be a monk, be a monk

Adding my Western perspective to this story, I'd say that instead of worrying about what to do with the rest of my life, I should just focus on what I need/want to be during this time in my life. When things change in the future, I can re-invent what I want to be and focus on that. When it's time to be a general, be a general. When it's time to be a monk, be a monk.

May 27, 2004

When my father was diagnosed with cancer, he was given less than six months to live. He survived two years. They were two difficult years, but he hung on. Sometimes I couldn't understand why. How could he stand it night after night while his body consumed himself? I, on the other hand, would probably have jumped out of a plane without a parachute. But he hung on until there was nothing left. Then, he let go.

What is it about life that makes a man hang on? A Zen story that offers a possible answer:

One day, while walking through the wilderness, a man happened upon a vicious tiger. He ran but soon came to the edge of a cliff. Climibing down a vine, he discovered another tiger at the bottom. Then two rats appeared and began gnawing on the vine. The vine started to tear. Suddenly, the man noticed a plump red strawberry growing along the cliff. He plucked it and popped it in his mouth. How sweet it tasted.

May 21, 2004

I'm going to be 33 on Saturday. A few days ago, I was hanging out with my friend Lindsay, one of the coolest women I know. She's 26. I asked her where she'd like her life to be by the time she's my, ahem, venerable age. Seven years from now. Holy cow! Seven years from now, when she's my current age, I'll be turning 40. That realization shut me up for a few moments.

I'd better figure out what I want to do when I grow up before I wake up one day and I'm all grown up.

There's a line from "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coelho that I read the other night: You must always know what it is that you want.

I look back at times in my life when I've known what I wanted and gone for it. Each time, it required work but looking back, those memories are covered with the warm fuzzies. Well, not all, but still, I'm glad for them. For example, US Army Infantry Boot Camp. I wanted to earn that Infantry Blue cord on my uniform. It took thirteen weeks at Fort Benning, Georgia (during the summer, if I may add) for the program to finish and when my drill seargent pinned that blue cord on my uniform, I felt like I'd crossed a threshold, never to be the same again.

There was a summer in college when I decided that by the time fall came, I'd be in great shape. So, I bought a few fitness magazines and mapped out a workout. I'd work from 9-5, get home, lock myself in my bedroom and work out for two hours with a beat-up bench and dumbells. Then I'd make dinner, watch a little tv, and go for a run. Sometimes I'd run until I was exhausted, then turn around and run home. And when I returned to school that fall, people commented on the shape I was in. I'd set out to do something and achieved it. That itself was the best reward.

Some people have known what they wanted to be since they stepped out of diapers. I've never been one of them. Too many interests. But I find myself dabbling in many things, not being master in any. The question I must ask myself: is it important to commit to one thing? To one career? To one way of life?

Or, can I constantly re-invent myself? Bounce off the energy of life, see how high I can leap? At nineteen, I was a soldier. I've been a college student, a backpacker, healthcare researcher, dot commer, consultant, writer.

Like Bono said, the future is fluid. So maybe, instead of asking myself what I want to be when I grow up, the better question is: How do I want to invent myself for this period in my life? The "period" could be as long as I want--a day, month, year, decade, minutes. Barring a few exceptions, I could be anything. Any one of us could.

So, I leave you with the question: How do you want to invent yourself for this period of your life?

May 19, 2004

I saw the U of Penn commencement webcast today. The commencement speaker was Bono, the lead singer for U2, a rock star. A great choice. He spoke about the work he's doing with the AIDS and debt problem in Africa. He made a statement which is worth repeating here. He said that although we can't address every problem--natural disasters, corruption, etc--we have to address the ones we can.

He said: "Because we can, we must."

Simple and true. He said that if we take ourselves to the task, we can be the first generation that can help eradicate poverty so extreme that a child can die because of lack of food. All this in a world of plenty. "It might take a while," he said, "but we can be the generation that says NO to that stupid poverty."

More quotes from his speech:

"It's an expensive undertaking but a cheaper one than say, the Marshall plan which saved Europe. Or cheaper than fighting waves after waves of terrorism's recruits."

"I'm not a hippie, I do not wear flowers in my hair. I come from punk rock. The Clash wore combat boots!"

"Me, I'm in love with this country called America. I'm a huge fan. I'm like one of those annoying fans who follow you into bathrooms and ask you all sorts of annoying questions. I've read the Declaration of Independence. I've read the Constitution. They're some liner notes. I love America because it's not just a country, it's an idea. The ideas: equality, anything is possible. But these are the most difficult of ideas."

"I love the idea of America. I love the spirit that there's no problem that we can't face. So what problem do we want to apply all this energy to?"

"I hope you'll go and sing the melody line you hear in your head. You don't own anyone any explanations."

"I used to think the future was fixed, something you inherit from a previous generation. It's not. It's fluid. The world is more malleable than you think and it's waiting for you to hammer it into shape."

"This degree of yours is a blunt instrument. So go and build something with it."

May 15, 2004

He continued, saying that once we create problems worthy of our lives, the little ones disappear off the radar. They pale in comparison. Perspective's the word, I guess.

Examples of people who created problems worthy of their lives: (1) Gandhi: Freedom for India through non-violence (2) Martin Luther King Jr.: Civil rights through non-violence (3) Nelson Mandela: End of Apartheid. (4) Susan B. Anthony: Women's rights in the US.

Four normal human beings who chose a challenge worthy of their lives.

And here I sit whining to myself about all the "problems" I have. What are they really? I'm one of the luckiest people in the world, living in the US (in California, which is even luckier), educated, with a world of opportunities before me. No tanks outside my window. No one shooting at me. Running water.

We get this one shot at life. It's quick, over in less than a blink. We spend it wandering from one thing to another and before we know it, our social security number's headlining a medical chart in the hospital (or nursing home) while a sweaty ER tech performs CPR on us. Game over.

So, what is a problem worthy of my life? Is it writing that screenplay(s) or novels(s) that will move people? Is it becoming a doctor and working with the poor? Raising a child well? Or is it even bigger like peace in the Middle East? Sounds impossible. Who am I to even dream such things? But then again, who was Gandhi? Who was Martin Luther King Jr.? Who was Susan B. Anthony? Human beings who chose bigger problems.